BlogU Schooled Me.

Last year I went to The Blog University known as #BlogU. Hashtag getschooled. And there was definitely a lot of schooling to be had there. Writing, promoting, making money, social media, "branding" your blog, treating your blog like a business. A lot.

And despite the notion that one should go to a blogging conference to learn about blogging, I actually learned more about myself last year. I learned that in a large group of people that are not my family or friends, I will revert back to my introverted and shy younger self. It prevented me from meeting a lot of fellow bloggers that I was quite comfortable with chatting online in various writing groups. People who share my love for this medium and who understand what it means to want and to need to do this.

#BlogU14

I wasn't 100% sure I should even be going to BlogU since until then I hadn't considered my blog to be much more than a hobby and an outlet for me to write. (Of course, this might be a bit of an understatement since I do have a facebook page and twitter account under my blog name--but I guess part of the vanity of writing is wanting people to actually read what you write.)

I didn't know if I could justify spending the time or money on what was (for me) the huge luxury of a conference. I had dabbled with a few small social media campaigns and a sponsored post that helped offset the cost, so that sort of sealed the deal for me in my mind--if I had already invested the time and energy in those efforts, maybe there was more to my whole experience as a blogger than writing every once in a while and begging my friends to read it.

I am a writer.

At it's most basic, blogging is writing and I've been doing it ever since I can remember. I am certainly not the best, and I am definitely not prolific, but I believe I am a good writer--even if i might be a crappy blogger. I felt that I had a unique "brand" but not necessarily a unique perspective--which seems to be a key to blogging success. But then, success is defined differently for all of us.

The main reason that I feel BlogU is for me is that it is approachable. No one there is keeping tabs on how often (or not) I'm posting. They don't care if I don't have some sponsorship deal with a brand. They care about me because I care to be there. I want to learn whatever it is that will elevate me as a blogger and a writer--whether that's writing for money or simply writing for myself. It is about our craft and how we can do it better: for ourselves, for our readers and for our families (as a potential source of income).

I was determined to have a more successful year at #BlogU15 this year. My shy, introverted (and coincidentally Middle-School-aged) self was nowhere to be found. (Except on the bulletin board full of #MiddleSchoolAwkward pictures for the Nickelodeon-sponsored #MiddleSchooltotheMax dance party on Saturday night.)

Middle school me. Permullet and all.

But despite the previous year's shyness, I really made an effort to meet and talk to more of the little people from inside my computer...

All the little people from inside my computer.

Probably my favorite picture this year,
 because last year's selfie with Jen Mann
looked a lot like this year's selfie with
Nicole Leigh Shaw (see below).

Crappiest pic of the year goes to my selfie with Nicole Leigh Shaw (left).
Thankfully she graciously took a selfie with her phone (right ) and let me tweet it!

But enough about me, there are SO many things to know and do depending on what your goals are for your blog or yourself as a professional writer. I did make an effort to focus on my blog and what I wanted to take away from #BlogU15 as a writer and a blogger. The things I learned about blogging are these:

• Blogging is work. If you think this shit writes itself, you're crazy. I'm sure some people can sit down and bang out a post in 15 minutes but it takes me some serious time. (In fact, a good bit of THIS post was started last year after #BlogU14. I never finished it then, but a lot of the thoughts stuck with me this year.)
• Blogging is not merely writing.  Writing is just the beginning of it. There is design, analytics and social media involved. All of which are time consuming and necessary to different degrees, depending on your goals.
• Blogging is universal. The heart of blogging is communication. We write to share, to teach, and to reach out--regardless of the topic. You can be a parenting blogger, a fashion blogger, a food blogger or a lifestyle blogger but no matter your genre, you are speaking to an audience. And they are listening. That is communication.

You are speaking to an audience. And they are listening. That is communication. #BlogU15

No #BlogU, thank YOU. #BlogU15 #gotschooled #sophmoreyear

A photo posted by @notsosupermom on Jun 7, 2015 at 11:32am PDT

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Breaking Duggar

Josh Duggar is public enemy #1 these days.  And rightfully so.  He has confessed to a crime--punished or not, what he did was criminal--and he has said he is sorry.  I have no doubt that he is sorry, but whether or not it is repentance for what he did or regret for its discovery may never be known to us.

There is a war of sorts going on right now between those who want to see him punished and those who have come to his defense.  I'm am absolutely certain that nothing he has done is defensible but that hasn't stopped many people from taking up that misguided cause. 

The facts that people cite in his defense do not excuse any of his actions.  Was he a Christian? Yes. But confessing and asking God's forgiveness and even "earning" the forgiveness of his family and his victims does not make what he did okay.  Was he only 14? Yes.  I don't know many 14 year olds who don't know the difference between right and wrong with regards to inappropriate touching, but even if you should argue that he did not know that what he was doing was wrong--his actions prove otherwise:

• He did this to five--FIVE--different victims.  None of the victims were aware that there were other victims (as stated in the police report) which means he isolated each victim (or took advantage of their isolation, asleep in their beds).  
• He kept his actions private.  By doing this to sleeping victims, by taking advantage of isolated situation (a sister reading a book on his lap, a babysitter sleeping alone on the couch, a sister alone in the laundry room) he again illustrates that he knew what he was doing was wrong.
• He did this repeatedly and over time.  The first incidents (victims visited repeatedly, "4 to 5 times" as stated in the report) are reported to have happened early in 2002 and the last in March of 2003. 
• He "confessed" his wrongdoings to his parents--thereby admitting that what he did was wrong. His own admission of guilt proves that he KNEW what he did WAS WRONG. So why are people excusing his actions?

The actions of Jim Bob and Michelle also prove that they were complicit in covering up something very wrong.

• They lied.  Jim Bob makes statements (Narrative #6 in the police report) that he believed the "counseling" that they sent Josh to was affiliated with Little Rock Police Department and that is was conducted by a Christian Ministry.  As it turns out Michelle Duggar finally admits toward the end of the police report (Narrative #15) that the "training center" was little more than a family friend who was doing some remodeling.  No specific treatment, no certified counseling.  Just some sweat equity and nary a slap on the wrist.  Utterly disgusting and horrifying that this was what served as punishment for violating FIVE females.
• Jim Bob also states that after Josh returned from Little Rock that he and Michelle both felt that they had no more problems and that everything had been resolved.  However one of the children (Narrative #7) admits that sleeping arrangements were changed even AFTER Josh returned home from his "treatment."  Indicating that they were not exactly confident that this would not happen again.

And any alleged "counseling" amounted to a "stern talking-to" by a family friend who was a state trooper and who is currently serving out a 60-year prison sentence for charges of child pornography. Not exactly the best source of reform for young Josh.  There are statistics that bear further investigating as well.

• 14% of sexual offenders commit another sexual offense after 5 years, 24% after 15 years
• 40-80% of juvenile offenders have themselves been victims of sexual abuse
• 82% of sexual assaults were perpetrated by a non-stranger

Statistically speaking, there is a high probability that Josh was a victim at one time, and also a significant risk that he will or has offended since these incidents occurred.  There has been zero consideration of these ideas in this case.  Just more points to ponder and so many unanswered questions.  

• Why hasn't Arkansas Division of Children and Family Services done anything to remove any of the minor children from a family where molestation and rape (yes, rape) have been admitted to and confirmed and where the parents were complicit in covering it up?  
• You can talk all you want about statute of limitations, but if I make an anonymous phone call to and family/child services agency and accuse my neighbor of something, they will question everyone in the house, and possibly remove any children until it is established by professionals that there is no continued threat.  What was this not done at the time of this report?   Why were trained professionals from the Arkansas Division of Children and Family Services not sent to investigate this household?
• If Jim Bob and Michelle lied about Josh's "treatment," how are we to believe that they are being truthful regarding their daughters' supposed counseling.  And who is to say that such counseling (as I can only assume they received from other non-certified counselors inside their church system, if at all) was in any way effective in helping them cope with what happened to them?
• Why is Josh Duggar--now an admitted child sexual predator--still allowed access to his own young children? 

I am not here to change peoples' minds.  That fight is for others like The Daddy Files who quite deftly points out so many flaws in the defenders' "logic."  If someone is sick enough to defend or excuse those actions, for whatever warped reasons they can come up with, then nothing I say is going to make them understand how deeply wrong they are.  Everyone that is excusing or defending or overlooking or disregarding what Josh Duggar did is simply abusing these girls again.

What I hope happens is that the girls who were victimized get a voice here.  Sadly because of the current support of their abuser and the beliefs under which they were raised, this is not likely.  I hope they can see how truly abused they were then and how they continue to be now.  I hope that one, or several or all of them can find the strength to speak out and to speak up for themselves--not because we want to hear from them, or because we deserve to hear from them, but because they can and they want or need to be heard.  

Everyone excusing or defending what he did is simply abusing these girls again. #BreakingDugger @notsosupermom_

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Roadtrip: Motherhood

We all take a journey in motherhood.  Motherhood is "about the journey" because there is no destination.

For some, I imagine it is a luxury vacation--carefully mapped and planned.  For most others I would guess it is like a poorly planned road trip where you feel like you're on your way somewhere that you weren't completely prepared for.  Some roads are smoother than others, of course. Some parts of the journey are arduous.  And it can be like the longest road trip of your life.

There will be detours, fast food, and carsickness; there may be whining, yelling and crying.
You will hear interminable choruses of Sesame Street CD's and endless repetitions of "I need to go potty!" and "Are we there yet?" You will pack too many toys and not enough snacks, or vice versa.  You will forget your ear plugs and the extra diapers.  You will stop.

You will stop many, many times.  Someone will need to go potty and someone will be hungry and you will need to refuel.  Occasionally you will stop, and breathe, and take in the beauty of it all.  But you always keep going, because that's what you do.  Because even though you know there IS no destination, you will try your damnedest to get there.  You will push, you will pull, you will labor and you will go on.

One thing about this trip:  no way is the wrong way to go.  You may not have the best directions--if any.  You might question the road you have chosen.  You may even feel like you are getting nowhere sometimes (I have a teenager now. I know things.) but you journey on, because EVERYTHING is in the journey.  This journey.  And you're never there yet.

In motherhood, there is no "there."  You will raise your babies to be kids and your kids to be teenagers and your teenagers to be adults.  They will grow up and grow older and someday have babies of their own and you will never, ever, NOT be their mother.  You will never reach a destination, because there isn't one.  It is a journey that has no end.

Happy Mother's Day to you, wherever you may be on your journey.  Enjoy the ride.

You will never reach a destination because there isn't one. Enjoy the ride. #RoadtripMotherhood

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Listen To Your Mother Lehigh Valley 2015

Today I had the honor of being on stage with a fabulous group of writers as part of a nationwide series of live readings about motherhood.  Some pieces are heartfelt, some pieces are funny. Most, like life--and motherhood---are a little of both.

Some of us wrote pieces to audition with and others pulled from past work and found appropriate pieces that we had already written. My piece came from this blog two years ago. It is a piece that was (and might still be) my most honest to-date. I tweaked it a tiny bit for the show, but the essence of the piece is unchanged.

The pieces will be broadcast (sometime later this year) on the Listen To Your Mother YouTube channel. I hope that you will honor these stories by checking them out there.

This is Motherhood

The other night I was getting my baby girl into her pajamas when she grabbed a comb and insisting on combing my hair.  I sat obediently on the floor and watched her concentrated expression as she tried to "tame my tresses," which are so short she basically just kept shoving the comb into my hair, twisting it around and yanking it straight up.  I just stared at her face and a million thoughts ran through my head:  how I hadn't really wanted her, how I had to teach myself to stop thinking about what "should" have been, how I constantly tell her "I love you" in what began as an effort to convince myself that I really FELT it more than I felt like we made a huge mistake, how I can't imagine my life without her even though that was not the case for a long time, how she is SO sweet and loving and clever and embodies joy.  Every. Single. Day.  I found myself crying.

I cried that cry that comes over you when you feel the unbridled and overwhelming love of parenthood.  I cried that there were days that I denied myself that feeling for her and I cried that I can finally, honestly say that I no longer think about the life we would be living without her.  Somewhere along the line, I have discovered that there is no "we" or "us" without her.

Now, I don't mean to cheapen this moment, because it was, for me, somewhat profound.  I had spent a lot of days thinking about the things we would be doing if she wasn't here; and to be still for a moment, watching her just be and realizing that I couldn't remember the last time I'd had those thoughts, was a pretty big moment for me.  

I wiped my eyes, took the comb from her and pulled her to me to hug and squeeze this beautiful little creature that had just unwittingly overwhelmed me.  And then I was unwittingly overwhelmed by something entirely different:  the stench emanating from her rear.  While it was obvious what the issue was, it occurred to me that while I was basking in this motherly glow, crying simultaneously with small regret and great joy, that my gorgeous, wonderful, joyous baby girl was simultaneously combing my hair and dropping a deuce.  I found myself laughing.

For her, it was just another moment in a day filled with snacks and sippy cups, whining and tears, toys and baby dolls, giggles and silliness, and many, many hugs and kisses.  Nothing profound or momentous  for her--just something to do, something to explore.  A comb. Mommy's hair.  Another dirty diaper along the way.  Babyhood.

And so This is Motherhood:  the balance of the heartfelt and the mundane.  Overwhelmed by something profound, then the moment passes.  Overwhelmed by something so much more pedestrian but requiring no less attention--and as that moment passed I was simply thankful that I had stopped to sit and let her comb my hair.

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Of Mice and Moons

I take a few slow, deep breaths. My voice is a heavy whisper. Meditative and measured. A ritual of love.

Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown

To someone unfamiliar it might sound dull or perhaps stilted. Not a song but a kind of incantation. My voice breaks and drops out in its lowered register. I take my time. Sometimes I am simply tired. Sometimes I am experimenting with a tone of voice--even in the measured breaths between the words there is a kind of drama. Sometimes I just relish these quiet moments. These are the things that I hope will stay with her.

I am a creature of few habits, but this particular routine started 13 years ago with my first baby. Before she was even big enough to hold the book herself I would read Goodnight Moon every night--sometimes twice--before bed. It was light and fun and I would point out the mouse making his way around the room. Eventually she would track him herself.

Time marched on and I carried on the same with my son. Reading (again, sometimes twice) nightly. He was always just as willing to sit and listen as his older sister. It was a bond.

Time pushes forward and the habit gets skipped. Kids get older. The moon and the mouse lose their magic. The book, however, survives many purgings of the bookshelves. It is, to me, an icon of their babyhood. A talisman against the growing up and the forgotten memories. It is a moment, lived over and over and over, that I am loathe to let go.

And then came baby. There were new board books, new toys, new trinkets. And a new place for an old friend. The mouse and the moon return. But this baby will not have the book. She will hold it, and bite it, and wave it around but it shall not be read. She won't sit for it. And I was briefly heartbroken.

This was my thing. This was the ritual. This was the habit I kept, the memory maker, the keeper of moments. This book holds a lot of emotional weight and so much of my heart as a mother to my infants. It could not be denied. I decided that I would not read the book; I would recite it.

There are 7 years between my son and my youngest daughter--many years since I had laid eyes on and read it--but having read it so many, many times (sometimes twice a night) it came back a bit easier than I had expected. But this baby was a different baby, so the game was different.  She would hold the book, gnaw on it, throw it, all while I recited it. The words came back as they had been: light and fun. And after a time she would sometimes sit for the book and look for the mouse. 

This is our well-worn but well-loved board book. It became apparent that she was not an easy sleeper. Even cosleeping--which I did with both of my older ones--never imparted a depth of sleep in her nightly rhythms. I have many times referred to her as "my crappy sleeper."  She needed very much to be parented to sleep and occasionally (at almost 4 years old) still does. As she transitioned (not terribly smoothly) to her own bed, I would lay with her a lot. In seeking something rhythmic to slow and soothe her, and set a pace for sleep, I once again turned to the Moon. I started reciting again.

I would lay with her in the semi-darkness of the room and I would drop my voice to a thick, deep, almost-whisper: "In the great, green room......"  And so it began again.

It is no small thing to me that my girls share a room. Thirteen and three are a tough mix and very trying some days, but it truly makes my heart explode to know that my oldest is laying in the loft bed above us, listening to the same words she has known since she was a newborn. And although the words are the same, they are different. The lightness removed, the game set aside. This is no longer about the mouse and his antics. This is "a quiet old lady who is whispering hush."  This is about goodnights and the quieting of all the things. It is about a kind of peace, even if it is only the temporary peace of sleep.

In six weeks she will be four. Overtired and restless, she asked me again tonight: "Can you sing Goodnight Moon?" A ritual that is epic in my heart and one that I never refuse.

These are the moments she will remember.

I take a few slow, deep breaths. My voice is a heavy whisper. Meditative and measured. This is my love.

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Working Out. (Or Faking Out, whatevs...)

So when I first got the word choices for this week's #OneWord challenge my initial reaction was, "nah." 

Fake and Quiet. Immediately I think, "Quiet? What's That?"  Doesn't Lisa know that I have three kids? There is no possible way I can relate to that one except to say I wish I HAD some!

So, Fake.  On the face of it, Fake is probably last on a long list of words I can relate to.  My number one compliment ever from other people is that I am down-to-earth.  Fake,  the adjective, just doesn't live here.  I figured I'd wait until next week.....

Come Wednesday evening, thoughts of writing long gone, I was seriously considering working out. This may seem like no big revelation to you (and completely non sequitur) but it was kind of a big deal for me. About 18 months ago I was working out nearly every day and I felt awesome. And if you need proof (and you're totes bored) you need only check out my Instagram and scroll back through my gallery anywhere from 58 to 80 or so weeks ago I had a lot of fun posting sweaty selfies after my workouts. (If you want a shortcut search #gitnrdone. It's not all of the posts, but I used that hashtag quite a bit.)

Anyway I've been feeling like major crapola lately and I really need to do something about it. Nobody else is gonna work this body out for me. (Unless you count The Sarge and, well, this just isn't THAT kind of post. Some things just don't need to be faked.)

So the night dragged on and although the kids were in bed on time and without fanfare, laundry (and a new episode of Survivor) awaited. Feeling accomplished (some days folding one of the 10 loads of laundry you have done IS an accomplishment) I headed back to get ready for bed.

While contemplating my choice of pajama pants I decided that maybe I could still get this workout done.  Maybe I could squeeze it in tomorrow morning. I decided that to facilitate this plan I could sleep in my workout clothes. They are no less comfortable than most of my pj's and it would save me precious time in the morning. Then it occurs to me:  I'm FAKING IT.

Choosing to wear the workout clothes in an effort to get myself in the mood to actually work out.  Physically wearing things that will hopefully change my mental frame of mind which will hopefully inspire me to physically move my ass.  Faking it 'til I make it.

I know in all actuality, I probably won't make it. Mornings here can be tough and The Sarge will be gone before the rest of us are awake tomorrow so I will be on my own in trudging through the morning routine with the superkids.

But I think in faking this, and probably repeatedly, the mental change will take hold. I will reframe how I perceive myself, my desires and my abilities. I will fake myself into believing that I am worth taking the time to do this for myself.  I will still be down-to-earth me (those sweaty selfies aren't glamorous) but if it gets me to a better, healthier place, maybe I can make room for some of this kind of Fake.

Fake it 'til you make it. #OneWord @notsosupermom_

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This post is part of the One Word Blog Link up hosted by The Golden Spoons, Confessions of a Mommyholic, and Blogitudes.

Imagic-nation

I never write about current events.  I don't write about politics, religion (ok, almost never now, I guess), mommy wars, or anything I might happen to come across in the news.  But today in the car on the way to preschool The Geel asked me where unicorns live and I thought of the small boy in Texas suspended for, well, basically for using his imagination.

Now, I knew the source of her question was the colorfully awful Barbie movie she had watched over the weekend.  It had fairies and mermaids and unicorns and a terribly moronic storyline about some bratty little princess who is stealing everyone's magic--including the queen unicorn's.

By way of an answer I was immediately and acutely aware of my need to be practical and educative and give her the "right" answer.  The same feelings have always haunted me regarding Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny--lets be "real" here-- but of course we have celebrated all of them for years because, childhood, duh!  In a space of seconds I thought through several options;

1. Tell her they are only in Barbie movies. (Dumber than the plot of the stupid movie itself--and why should Barbie have all the fun?)
2. Be the asshole that kills her imaginative spirit and tell her they're not real. (Not it!)
3. Make something up. (FAST!)

twitter.com/notsosupermom_

Now, for someone who was a theater major in college I am terrible at pretending things.  I HATE playing with Barbies,
or baby dolls, or playing "store."  (It is a testament to The Sarge's patience that he makes it through several days a week with The Geel doing ALL of those things.)  These days my imagination runs wild with less fun things like wondering what would happen if something happened to me or The Sarge, or less practical things like what I would do with lottery money (that we'll never win because we don't play! How's that for impractical?)

Anyway, I can't always just drum up the fun, playful, whimsical things that would answer her question and that she deserved to hear, because she's THREE!  And when you're three unicorns should be real.  What I came up with was that unicorns can only live in magical places. Which she pretended to understand but which also prompted more questions about where those places were and whether or not she could go there, and then she circled around again to Barbie and her magical Secret Door and yada, yada, yada.

I don't exactly remember where the conversation went after that, but I remember thinking that that poor boy in Texas must have been so terribly confused and crushed to be punished for using his imagination.  Since the original story broke there seems to be some discrepancies regarding what actually took place, but the incident struck a chord because the "moral" of the story is this: When you take away a child's right to imagine--unicorns and magic rings and even imaginary friends--you take away their willingness to dream, to invent, to create.

Aren't we a nation of dreamers?  Don't we pride ourselves on our independent and creative spirit?

Who among us has not pretended to be the very thing that is our livelihood today?  If we hadn't dared to dream our dreams as children, to imagine ourselves as writers, doctors, hairdressers, hobbits, scientists, firefighters, wizards, race car drivers, teachers, actors, ninjas, lawyers, soldiers and moms, who would we be today?  Who would have gone to the moon, who would have built the skyscrapers, who would have written about the "one ring to rule them all," who would have imagined a unicorn?

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